I Just Work Here
by Idogoodwork
Summary: Wylie is just a janitor athe Overwatch...but maybe he could be more if he wanted.
1. Chapter 1

In the dream he's still whole. He's on stage and playing music, a song about getting high in a park and getting shook down by cops as he walked home and crying about it. He can feel the thrum of the guitar in his hands as he moves between frets. He looks at the girl to his right, shouting the chorus into the microphone, her dark hair spilling over her dark eyes. He knows the next song they'll play will be about her. He knows that she knows it too even though he's never told her so.

Then there's a horrible screeching noise. He shrugs. Feedback from the PA. The song ends and he's about to tell the crowd about the next song, but he hears it again. Louder, and there are other noises this time. Shouts. Sirens. Then just the screech over and over.

Wylie Toledo rolls over and smashes the snooze button. He shouts and recoils as the pieces of the digital alarm clock fly at him.

"Fucking hand," he mutters into his pillow.

He tries to sleep again, but the constant whirring of the server room just a few feet of cheap drywall away and the fear of having the dream again get him out of bed. He takes a cold shower. Better to focus on being cold than anything else. He brushes his teeth, throws on his jumpsuit, and carefully attaches his identification badge to the lapel.

He looks at the picture on the badge, then at his reflection in the mirror, then back at the badge. It was a good picture at least.

He walks through the labyrinthine hallways of his newish home, keeping his head down. He didn't use to keep his head down. When he finally gets to Grady's office he fills a paper cup with coffee and chugs its down. Cold as ice water. It was half after three in the morning, just like every shift. Why couldn't he get hot coffee at this hour?

Grady isn't there, never is this time of the morning. But he had laid out a schedule for Wylie, Jackson, and Sam like he always did. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sam had to clean the cafeteria, and a bigger one when he noticed Jackson would be tending to the Overwatch members personal quarters.

"Shit on Reinhardt's floor Jack," he said to no one. Grabbing one of the hovering trash barges from the corner Wylie set about his job.

He was a janitor. Well, he figured he could say he was part of Overwatch, but he was still a janitor. Not that he cared. Sure what he was doing was illegal, there wasn't supposed to be an Overwatch. But the job paid better than most and for the first time in ten years he was back in Europe. He never much cared for Poland, but he could take the train to the places he did care for when he had time off.

He could still remember the help wanted ad.

GREETINGS! DO YOU HAVE A THIRST FOR ADVENTURE? ARE YOU WILLING TO TAKE RISKS? WE'RE LOOKING FOR ABLE BODIED INDIVIDUALS TO HELP RENOVATE A WAREHOUSE IN WARSAW! REPLY NOW!

(please include a brief description of yourself, why you are applying, and any special skills).

Wylie had called, set up an interview over the Web, and afterwards was invited for a face to face in Warsaw. The woman he interviewed with asked him a lot of questions about his arm. She was European, Swiss or German. The questions were gentle, but questions he didn't want to answer and tried desperately to shrug off. He didn't think he was going to get the job. But when he arrived at the airport for the flight back to the States he was stopped.

That was...shit...three months ago?

He went about his day. He emptied trashcans, waxed floors, wiped down windows. He hated wiping windows. Always had to stare at the hand when he did it.

It was around eight in the morning when him and Sam stumbled into each other.

"Wylie," Sam shouted excitedly. "You'll never believe this!"

"Belive what Sam?"

"They went out tonight! Like for real! On a mission!"

"They've been doing that Sam," Wylie said changing out one of the trash bags in what could only be called the lobby.

"Yeah I know...but," the other man let the word hang there waiting for a question.

"But what," Wylie finally answered indulging his young friend.

"But they're do back any minute," Sam shouted.

"So why are you here," Wylie asked indifferently.

"Oh...shit you don't know," Sam answered laughing. "You still think this is the lobby don't you?"

"It isn't," Wylie asked raising an eyebrow. "Well what the fuck is it then if it's not the lobby?!"

Sam just kept laughing and pointed up. Wylie didn't look up anymore so seeing the struts and cranes and walkways left him dumbstruck. He was in a hangar. He knew where THE hangar was, this must have a secondary one. He hurriedly finished bagging the trash and made to leave when Sam grabbed him by the hand.

"Come on Wylie...stay! Maybe some of the glory will wash off on us."

"What glory is that exactly," he spat back him.

"Uh..." Sam recoiled, confusion plain on his face. "They're heroes Wylie?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"What's your problem man," Sam asked upset.

"They're just people Sam. Just like us. Sure ones a talking gorilla who makes Einstein look like a toddler, and ones a cyborg ninja. But last week Reinhardt treated me like shit. Asked if I had ever waxed a floor before."

"Why," Sam asked with a frown.

"He couldn't see his reflection in the floor."

"They aren't all bad," Sam said after an awkward silence. "McCree talks to me every day."

"Yeah? What about D. Va? The old guy? Any of the soldiers or pilots who are here to be a part of Overwatch? They chat you up?"

Neither of them said anything for a long time. They heard the transport dock in the other hangar. Cheers, congratulations, people shouting and celebrating.

"If you hate it so much. If you hate them so much..." Sam finally said walking towards the hangar door that was slowly opening. "Just leave."

Wylie stood there leaning on the trash barge as the people filed past him. There went Winston and Mei and McCree, the people who ran the day to day of Overwatch following closely behind them. Everyone was happy, relishing in the success of the strike team. They didn't notice Wylie hopping on the barge and running his good hand through his hair, didn't hear his deep sigh, didn't care whether he left or not.

They filed past quickly, faster than he could have expected and he just had to laugh. He laughed so hard he fell back onto the bags of trash in the barge and, despite the smell, just kept on laughing.

"Hi'ya," someone shouted at him. "W'as so funny it's got ya tossin' about in the trash?

Wylie bolted upright, taken completely by surprise.

"Oi," the woman to his left exclaimed. "You're names Wylie! I knew a Wylie once, was a bit different. You a bit different?

"Um, er..." he stammered.

"Wylie..." she pulled her goggles up and looked at his badge. "Toledo! Wylie Toledo. Oh man, that's a name. A great name! Are you from Toledo?"

"No, it's just my..."

"You ev'a been to Toledo? It's beautiful. The one'n Spain I mean," she said giggling.

"How did you know my name," he asked.

"Mercy talks 'bout you, she did your interview. She's a worrier Mercy, but you seem well fit. Don't talk much though."

"Well you're talking enough for the both of us," Wylie said, a tad more biting than he meant.

"Oh...shit," she said with a pout. "Guess I am."

She kept the pout up maybe ten seconds before bursting into an infectious laughter, one that made him laugh himself, but genuine this time.

"See you 'round Wylie," she said before he was caught full in the face with a rapid displacement of air.

He dropped off the trash, waxed the rest of the floors and then retired back to his nook next to the server room. He thought about laughing and hoped he wouldn't have the dream again.


	2. Chapter 2

"Toledo," roared a voice through his rooms intercom, startling Wylie out of bed. The new alarm clock he'd lifted from the bases commissary was on the ground next to him.

"The fuck do they want at this hour," he wondered. The clock read eight o'clock in the evening, four hours after his shift had ended and just an hour after he'd fallen asleep.

"Toledo," a voice he recognized as belonging to Grady shouted through the intercom again.

"You know I'm trying to sleep right? What the hell is your problem," Wylie asked over the intercom, carefully pressing the button with his bad hand.

"My problem? MY PROBLEM," Grady said voice growing louder.

Rumor had it that Grady had been one of the first soldiers to serve in Overwatch, and one of the first to be crippled during the Omnic Crisis. Still wanting to do his part the former sailor said he'd do anything to stay, so one of Overwatchs black ops spooks said he could always clean the toilets.

"My problem is you, Toledo. Get your ass to the office ASAP."

Wylie dressed in the dark, sighing heavily and trying to think if he'd done anything wrong earlier that day. All the trash cans had been changed. Bathrooms scrubbed and restocked. Floors waxed. He'd even taken extra care to get the blood out of the combat training room because the gorilla had mentioned to Grady the custodial department hadn't been doing a good job. So he hadn't done anything out of the ordinary thst he could remember, at least not anything that would have Grady so close to an aneurysm.

"Oh shit..." he stopped halfway to the office. He thought back to a few days ago and his conversation with the Brit, Tracer. He couldn't remember exactly what he said. He could remember her laughing and zipping away, but what if he had been a dick. Tracer had been with Overwatch forever, Grady looked up to her. If she had said something he'd end up bagging his bags back the States.

As Wylie approached the office door he was ready to throw himself on the floor and beg for his job. To apologize to Tracer, to clean the bathrooms with a toothbrush and haul the trash bags by hand...and then smelled coffee. Fresh coffee. He walked in and could see the steam rising from the pot. Fresh. Fresh this late in the evening. He hovered over it, grabbing a Styrofoam cup with his good hand.

"Sit. Down," Grady barked.

Wylie did as ordered, uncomfortably crossing his arms. Grady stared at him for a long time, hands balled together. He finally unclenched them and slid a hastily hand written note across the desk at Wylie.

"Read it."

Wylie reached out and pulled it closer, squinting hard at the chicken scratch.

"What is...is this...I don't," he stammered at Grady.

"What the fuck did you do!"

"I...nothing!"

"What did you so!"

"Grady, listen, nothing...I swear."

"You threaten her? Because you want the easy job?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?! No! I hate cleaning the agents quarters!"

Grady balled his fists again, bringing them to his chin and leaning back in the chair. He glared across the desk, boring holes in Wylie, before finally leaning forward and sighing.

"I don't like you Toledo."

"Yeah...no shit," Wylie said, the sarcasm making the older man's face twitch.

"From here out you're assigned to the agents quarters."

"Grady...please. I don't want it, I fucking hate it...give it to Sam! Sam would do much better than i ever could," Wylie pleaded weakly.

"You're gonna do it and God help me, if I receive one complaint from any agent I will personally put your ass on a plane back to whatever backwater, podunk, piece of shit town you came from. Now get out."

-

It had been a week and Wylie was still miserable. He rose earlier than ever, working as fast as he could to clean and restock the agents quarters hoping every day he wouldn't come face to face with one. So far he'd been lucky. No Reinhardt, or McCree, or Tracer. Each morning he'd finish and rush out, sweating and short of breadth.

He didn't hate them. Sure, Reinhardt and the Japanese guy with bow had treated him like shit before, but the rest treated him with the total indifference those so often praised normally do. That's what he hated. The hero worship. He had hated it even when he was in a band and random people he had never met or would ever get to know heaped it upon him for writing songs and having an ok voice. He was a person. They were just people. They had amazing abilities and did great work, but that wasn't a reason to ignore that they had the same failings as everybody else.

Wylie was lost in thought and furiously scrubbing at what he could only assume was blood when he heard a shout.

"Hey man! How's it hanging," a cheery voice rang out from down the hall. Wylie stifled a sigh, phoning in a wave with his good hand and hoping the speaker would leave.

"Damn you're here early. Ya know, I was starting to wonder who was cleaning the place. We can normally catch a sight of Jackson, and Sam takes his time. We were starting to wonder if Winston found a ghost to do it."

Wylie looked up at the approaching figure and would have recognized him even if he wasn't a member of Overwatch. Lucio dos Santos was one of the most famous musicians in the world, and while Wylie wasn't a huge fan, as a fellow musician he respected the Brazilians craft.

"So what's your name man," Lucio asked.

"Wylie," he said resigning to the interaction and standing up.

"Wylie...cool. Good to meet you man," Lucio said putting his fist put for Wylie to dap.

"So I'm uh...I'm gonna get back to it," Wylie said after bumping fists. "Lot left to do...this blood won't come out so..."

"Yeah, yeah man, cool...hey can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You ever been to Rio?"

"Um...yeah. Once, like, shit, a long time ago. Why?

"Where at," Lucio asked eyes narrowing.

"Well we played at some touristy spots," Wylie said uneasy at first. Then the memories came flooding back. Evan crushing them at strip Uno, the enormous pink drink Sophie had crushed in ten minutes, the four of them skinny dipping in the resorts hot tub.

"Anywhere else," the Brazilian asked snapping Wylie out of a trance.

"Yeah, we did a gig at a local spot. Somewhere in Rocinha."

"Aw man I knew it! I knew I'd seen you somewhere before," Lucio shouted wrapping Wylie in a hug. "You were in a band right? Vanny? Vinny? Something like that right?"

"Uh yeah," Wylie said with a smile. "Vincent. Like Van Gogh."

"That's right! Man your set was killer. And then at the end Bruno got on stage and tried to take the bass from that girl and you dropped him with one punch!"

"Yeah..." Wylie said getting uncomfortable.

"Man, you ruined his rep forever with that punch," Lucio rambled on without noticing. "So what are you doing here!? What happened to the band?"

"We couldn't stay together."

"Ah man, that sucks. You guys should have been a big deal."

"Sure," Wylie said.

"Well what's up? You still play? Because I could use so..."

Mercifully, he stopped talking when Wylie held up his bad hand. He stared at it, his smile fading a bit, but never truly leaving. The he grabbed it, clasping it with both of his hands.

"Look man, if you ever hear me up, stop by. I'm working on something new, it's gonna be great. But I could use another artists input. Cool?"

"Uh...yeah. Cool," Wylie agreed, unsure if himself.

"Cool," Lucio responded letting go. "I'm sure you will. I'm a bit of a night owl, and with the espresso machine Hana got me I've been bouncing off the walls the last few days. Be easy!"

With that he jogged around the corner and left Wylie alone.

"Guess it couldnt hurt to stop by one time," he muttered to himself as he got back to work getting the blood off the floor. "He's got coffee at least."


End file.
